Caught One Handed
by Elianna22
Summary: Of all the adult movies produced by Woody and Addison Fink, Connor Pickett-Martin had to know which ones starred his fiancée – if he could still call her that. Rated T for some mature content.


**A/N: This one-shot is dedicated to everyone who enjoys Angst/Humour stories, and especially to those read **_**Never Be Another Tonight. **_**Please read & enjoy! :)**

**Disclaimer: I own Connor, Heather, Simon, Farshad, Mel, and Shi. Disney owns everyone else.**

**Special thank to Waldojeffers for beta-reading.

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**Caught One-Handed

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"Bye, baby," said Heather, her long honey-coloured hair tumbling over her shoulders as she leaned for a kiss. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Connor Pickett-Martin smiled into her deep sea-green eyes and lifted his lips to hers. Their mouths touched—longer than a peck, shorter than a full-blown kiss. Her hair tickled his cheek.

"OK, see you soon," he said.

Heather pushed her hair away from her face, ran her hand through Connor's sandy blond hair, and took her purse from the back of her chair. She wrapped the long strap tightly around her hand. "OK, see you," she said after a pause.

Connor's blue eyes followed her to the front door, absorbing the sway of her narrow hips clad in grey skinny jeans and the drape of her hair, streaked from the summer sun, hanging to the middle of her back. Half of him wanted to sneak up behind her, take her in his arms, and smother her neck with kisses. The other half of him maintained control, counseling him to stay seated at the kitchen table.

At the door, Heather stopped and surveyed the apartment, as though she had forgotten something important in the kitchen or in Connor's bedroom. She fingered the ruffle on the hem of her pink tanktop, then put her hand on the doorknob. It remained there.

Toast crumbs had scattered from Connor's plate onto the tabletop. He brushed them into a little pile. His right thumb had a hangnail. He picked at it, trying to mentally locate the nail clippers somewhere in the bathroom. Where had he left them?

When a few moments had passed, Heather said, "Love you." A question mark appended itself to the two words, a silent signal, a plea for allegiance.

"Love you, too," Connor said. The corners of his mouth stretched into a small smile. Mustering an upbeat tone, he added, "Have fun."

"Well, bye."

"Bye."

_Click._

The door shut behind Heather.

Connor had the apartment to himself.

All to himself, until Heather finished with her chiropractor appointment—or Farshad finished with the married woman he had picked up in the fresh produce section of a grocery store in Beverly Hills on Thursday. Farshad Nazarov, his roommate and best friend, had a notoriously short attention span.

Draining his coffee cup, Connor rinsed the breakfast dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher. After dealing with the hangnail, he got dressed in his weekend uniform—jeans and his favourite turquoise UCLA T-shirt—and wandered out into the living room.

The unfailing sunlight of July splashed onto the sofa and coffee table, implying ferocious heat in spite of the air-conditioner running at full blast. Another scorching day. Staying indoors or going to the beach were the only sensible options. Maybe they would head down to Santa Monica when Heather returned, or drive up to Malibu. Maybe.

Connor's laptop sat on the coffee table, next to a heap of newspapers. _Pssst_, it seemed to whisper. _Hey buddy_.

Connor busied himself with straightening the newspapers. He dropped a handful of flyers into the recycling bin and eyed the vacuum cleaner parked in a corner of the apartment. Was it his turn to vacuum, or Farshad's?

_Psssst._

Connor's eyes snapped back to the laptop. He glanced at the front door, then at his watch. It was only 10:45.

The coast was clear.

Blindingly, tantalizingly clear.

Connor grabbed the laptop and hurried into his bedroom, closing the door. He settled onto his bed, booted up the laptop, and as always, went straight to his inbox.

One new email, from his sister Melanie in Dallas.

_Hey big bro,_

_How's it going? When's the wedding? Me and Shi can't wait to go shopping for bridesmaid dresses! And I don't forget, I want to walk down the aisle with Farshad 'cause the maid of honour is a guy :)_

_Say hi to Heather for us. TTFN,_

_Mel :) _

_xoxoxo_

Connor let out a sigh and flopped onto his back. He had forgotten Heather had promised his little sisters that they could be bridesmaids. As for wedding party logistics, he hadn't given them any thought. Sighing again, he rubbed a hand over his face.

What the hell could tell his sister?

The past two weeks had been an emotional rollercoaster, a dizzying sequence of highs and lows, like his heart and brain were trapped on the West Coaster at Santa Monica Pier.

**High:** Heather showing up at his apartment after their Jack and Jill party, a distastrous affair hosted at a swanky club by their mutual friend Simon Fink. The very same Simon Fink who had let slip—to Connor's shock and in front of all the guests—that Heather used to be a porn actress. The tearful reunion with Heather had initiated Connor into the glories of make-up sex.

**Low:** The next morning, when reality crashed in like a Special Forces team.

"Why did you come back?" Connor asked, striving for an air of nonchalance as he buttered a slice of toast for Heather.

Heather's eyes fastened to his. "Because I love you," she said simply. "I couldn't let you go. You're my future, Connor, you mean everything to me."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. _The person you're planning to spend the rest of your life with. About your past. In porn._

Heather swallowed. She contemplated her toast.

"If you'd told me earlier," he went on, "we could have worked things out."

"We're working things out now... aren't we?"

"I don't know if we can," Connor said quietly.

"Are you breaking up with me?" Heather's eyes flashed wildly. "Are you fucking breaking up with me?"

Connor stared at his coffee cup. "I don't know."

"What about all that stuff you told your dad?" Heather demanded in a cross-examining tone and Connor gripped his coffee cup, feeling his cheeks go hot.

"You heard that?"

Heather nodded. "I was out in the hall and, Connor, I feel the same way. We're only twenty-two. I don't know what the future holds, only that I want to spend it with you, wherever life takes us, whatever careers we end up in. That's all that matters, just like you said." Her hand reached toward his across the kitchen table. "Isn't that what you want? Or don't you mean that stuff anymore?"

"Yes, of course, I do. I'm just... I'm just so confused." Connor wanted to rest his head on the table, go back to sleep, or better yet, back to last week or any other time in the seven months he had known Heather Melora Symonds.

"You're my future," Heather reiterated. "My everything. Don't you feel that way about me?"

"I don't know," Connor said, hating those three words, their pathetic ambiguity.

"You don't _know_?" Suddenly Heather was on her feet, yanking the engagement ring from her finger—the diamond-and-aquamarine-encrusted ring he had borrowed $8000 from Uncle Cody to buy. "Fine," she yelled and hurled the ring at him. It bounced off Connor's plate as she ran to the front door, sobbing.

_Shit. _Connor looked down at the ring. His heart flipped in his chest.

_Shitshitshit._

Within seconds, he had chased after his fiancée and slammed the door, pushed her against it and driven his tongue into her mouth. Why hadn't he done this last night, when Heather stormed away in tears after their screaming fight? Why hadn't he just shoved past her friends when they stepped in front of him, instead of conceding defeat and leaving the party in disgrace?

Heather struggled for a moment, her hand on the doorknob, then gave in, letting the kiss engulf her.

Connor drank in her passion, her aggression, empowered by them as he caressed her face and wiped away her tears. But when he unwrapped her fingers from his hair and tried to slide the ring back into its rightful place, Heather's hand retracted.

"No." The protest came out decisively. She pulled away to look into his eyes. "I think we need to start over."

"Back to square one?" he asked, confused.

"More like back to _date_ one," she said.

"OK," he said uncertainly.

Heather cleared her throat. She smoothed her hair from her face, squared her shoulders, and held out her right hand.

"Hi, my name is Heather Symonds," she said brightly. "I like puppies, sushi, sunsets, and hanging out at the beach. Dislikes include ugly shoes, bad drivers, and comedies that aren't funny. I'm graduating from USC in May, and my goal is to become a publicist for a talent agency." Her gaze flicked sideways and her smile widened. "And by the way," she said, looking him straight in the eyes, "I used to do porn."

"Déjà vu," Connor said with a chuckle. _It's going to be OK. We can get through this. It might take some time, but we'll be OK. _He put his hands on her cheeks and bent to kiss her again.

Heather wriggled away from his lips. "Oh, I don't kiss on the first date," she said, lowering her eyelids demurely.

**High:** Spending the previous weekend in Santa Barbara, exactly as he had longed to do throughout the ill-fated party. The trip, technically their second date in this revised timeline, had meshed perfectly with his fantasies: two days at a five-star hotel overlooking the beach, breakfast in bed, hours of lounging on the beach, Heather in a _very_ sexy string bikini that required him to slather copious amounts of sunscreen onto her many exposed parts.

**Low:** The party-is-over feeling that had ambushed him on the drive back to L.A. Sunday night, not unlike the last day of summer holidays. And his ego felt like a bruised apple again, doomed to fester until it spoiled the whole damn bunch. It was cold comfort that Heather had used her porn earnings to pay off credit card debt and her tuition, disproving his dad's hypothesis that she was a gold-digger, merely after the money he would one day inherit from his billionaire uncle.

**Lower:** Wondering when sex with him would start to bore Heather—if it hadn't already. An inquisition had installed itself in his head, peppering him with paranoid questions while he stared at spreadsheets at work. While he went out for drinks with Farshad and Simon, who were doing their best to keep him in high spirits. While he lay sleepless in bed. Was she into threesomes? Foursomes? Bondage? What level of debauchery would he have to adjust to in order to keep her satisfied? Would it eventually drive a stake between them?

**Worst low of all:** Fear that this enormous stake would belong to one—or more—of her incredibly well-endowed former co-stars.

Connor sat up. His head had begun to pound. He massaged his temples, groaning as the pain worsened.

To recap, what the hell could he tell his thirteen-year-old sister?

Absolutely nothing.

Would there even be a wedding?

The W-word had not been mentioned, by either of them, since that morning, and the ring was now tucked in a box in the bottom drawer of his desk, awaiting further instructions.

It was 10:57.

Still clear.

Connor took his wallet from the desktop and dug out a scrap of paper, lodged behind his credit cards. It had been torn from a notebook and folded several times.

Scrawled in Simon's handwriting were the URL and password for the online archives of Woodman Studios, owned and operated by Simon's parents, Woody and Addison, aka the First Couple of Adult Entertainment. Below was the name "Angel Roxx."

_Dude, what possessed you hound Simon for this info?_ spoke up the Voice of Reason. _What were you thinking?_

Simon himself had echoed this reasoning. "Dude, it's better not to know," he said when Connor broached the subject on Tuesday night. "Just let it go."

"But now that you've told me, I can't stop thinking about it," Connor insisted, shaking his head in frustration, and after four rounds of Stella Artois at their favourite bar, Simon had drunkenly capitulated.

Ignoring the Voice of Reason, Connor cast a furtive glance at his bedroom door, launched the Internet browser, and typed in the URL. Up popped the login page and then Connor found himself staring at the homepage of Woodman Studios' extensive archives.

His heart thumped.

Into the search field helpfully labeled "Talent" he typed Heather's stage name and pressed "Go."

As he watched, titles filled the screen. Sixteen, to be exact, plus thumbnails. _So she was telling the truth about how many movies she was in._

_Big Sugardaddy... Camp Cock... Camp Cock 2: More Cock... Debutante Debauchery 14... Doing Erica... The Gang Bang Theory... Horny Mom... L.A. Cumfidential..._

Connor's heartbeat doubled, pumping blood to other areas of his body.

_Mackenzie's Balls... The MILFtrix... Sean Pioneer vs. the Whores... Sleazy A_..._ The Sluts of Staveley Place... Sweet Ass on Deck... The Transporner... The Well-Hung Over._

What to choose?

_Don't do it, don't it_, warned the Voice of Reason. _You're not going to be able to look at her the same way. This is going to change everything_–

That was as far as it got. Connor's lizard brain emerged from its cave, teeth bared, and proceeded to savage the Voice of Reason.

_Suite Ass on Deck_, Connor decided.

His finger hovered above the mouse button.

_Could be good. Boats are fun. And the thumbnail looks interesting._

The finger hovered, moving closer and closer to—

"Whatcha doin'?" sing-songed in a sweet familiar voice.

Connor jumped as though a cannon had been fired through the bedroom wall.

There stood Heather in the doorway, her head tilted to one side, a quizzical smile on her lips.

Every muscle in Connor's body solidified. His lizard brain slunk back to its cave.

_You are _so_ dead_, gurgled the Voice of Reason before it succumbed to its injuries.

"Dr. Hofstadter had to cancel. Emergency root canal."

Or that was what Connor thought Heather said. He was having difficulty hearing over the whirring in his head as Heather advanced upon him, purse swinging from her shoulder.

How had he not heard the jingle of her keys, her footsteps, the bedroom door opening?

"We rescheduled for Wednesday after–"

Heather's mouth froze, her smile fading as her eyes flicked to the laptop screen, to Connor's slack-jawed expression, to the paper beside him on the bed. And to the laptop screen again.

Then she picked up the laptop.

Connor's stomach went into freefall. He tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn't obey. His mouth felt like baked sand.

_Oh no, here it comes._

In one quick movement, Heather had deposited herself in his lap, still holding the laptop.

A sly, sensual grin spread over her face, beginning with a sparkle in her eyes where the sunshine, streaming through the window, lightened her irises to a bewitching green.

"Good choice," she said, her voice soft and breathy and very close to his ear. "I think you'll like this one."

And she pressed the mouse button.

_Click, click._

****The End****

**A/N: Was there ever any doubt that Heather loves Connor unconditionally? He's a lucky guy :) A virtual box of chocolates if you can identify the movies and TV shows spoofed by Woodman Studios. Thanks for reading, guys, and reviews are always appreciated. Love from Ellie – Xoxoxo**


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